


The Domestic Life of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson

by elsexton29



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Case Fic, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Mild Language, Post Reichenbach, Reunions, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsexton29/pseuds/elsexton29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Reichenbach. John and Sherlock go about their separate lives. Can anything bring our heros back together? </p><p>After 6 months of endless grieving, John decides that he is not going to put his life on hold any longer. He moves back to 221 B Baker Street and gets in touch with a few old friends. </p><p>Meanwhile, Sherlock is determined to capture Moran in order to protect John. He is convinced John's life will be better without him. It takes the visit of an old enemy/ally to bring him to his senses. </p><p>Emotions stir and stakes are high in the lives of the Consulting Detective and his Blogger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Simply Living

**Author's Note:**

> This story is in a revising process currently. I will post a new chapter and remove this note once the revision is over. The story won't change. Just the level of writing.

The Domestic Life of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson 

Simply Living

John: 

He could only account the loss of yet another jumper to Harry's fearful packing skills. Ever since what he deemed the “dark days”, and she had abducted him from his flat, many of his jumpers had mysteriously vanished. He occasionally pondered over the fact that it was only his jumpers and not his socks. He could deal with the loss of some socks. Once he thought he had lost some pants, but they showed up eventually with the bleach spots that Harry was trying to hide. It always seemed to be his favourite jumpers that would end up in parts unknown. Harry really should know how to do laundry by this point in her life. 

He shrugged it off as he finished packing up what remained of his clothing. Today was the day he was returning to the only place that had ever felt like home. A place everyone else in the world would be shocked to think of as a desirable environment. It had been exactly six months, and it was time he gathered himself together and face the task at hand. He was a soldier for goodness' sakes. He had never depended on someone else his entire life, and he wasn't about to start. Plus, he couldn't spend another night in the dreadful house. It was so small that the walls seemed to encroach a little closer each day. Their flaking grey paint an ugly reminder to the dilapidated state of its owner. 

Harry did not take the news well. She was downing another one of her beers that always appeared magically in her hand after her separation with Clara. He remembered it was only last Christmas when she promised to turn things around for good. It was unfortunate that she was a also pathological liar. 

John hated her drinking problem, but recently it had been a little blessing. She was more oblivious to his grieving and was usually passed out by the time he woke up screaming with nightmares featuring tall buildings and falling angels. He had trouble even mentioning Sherlock at first, and saying his name would bring back that visual of him flying from the top of Saint Bart's. Only John knew he wasn't flying. He never could escape the images the outcome beheld. 

He had seen many men die before. Being an army doctor it was unavoidable. None of those men who died ever held a place in his heart like Sherlock had. It didn't take Sherlock's dying for John to know that he was connected to him in a way that would never leave him. His life had changed forever when he walked in the lab at St. Bart's with Mike Stamford, there was no escaping it. Even with all the pain and the heartache it caused, he wouldn't change it for the world. For that short amount of time, his life mattered. His time in the military and as a doctor was significant, but not like his time with Sherlock. Anyone could have taken his position in the military and completed the job with equal adequacy, but his task as Sherlock's companion was one that he believed could only have been completed by himself. To him, that time mattered. 

Trailing behind him was his suitcase as he searched the front room for movement. The space was dark with only the flicker of the telly. Harry was propped up on one elbow as her other hand still clutched a beer. She was asleep. That she was able to sleep and balance the bottle without spilling it everywhere was a miracle. John let himself out, knowing it would be better this way. She knew where he was going, and now he didn't have to listen to her try to talk him out of it.  
_____________________

 

Sherlock: 

The Consulting Detective tightened his beloved blue scarf around his neck against the chill of the wind as he watched John leave his sister's. That was his life now, well at least half of it. He walked close enough to keep track of his movements, but reasonably far away so John wouldn't notice. He followed John to make sure that he would be safe from the danger Sherlock had bestowed upon him. It was his fault he had a giant X stamped on his chest and a sniper aiming at his head. Sherlock was determined to do everything he could to set things straight. He wouldn't take his attention off John until he was sure that Moriarty's crime syndicate was dissolved. 

Sherlock had long ago decided that if John had recovered before Sebastian Moran was caught and was no longer grieving over Sherlock's 'death', then he would let him live his life in comfort. Sherlock deduced from the first time he met John that he had craved danger, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to be the one to put him in it again. John's life would be improved without Sherlock to muck it up. 

He wasn't able to observe first hand the amount of grief that John was experiencing, but had got an impression when he revealed himself to Lestrade when he went seeking help convicting Moran. Mycroft knew, of course, but there was only so much he could accomplish with his aversion to leg work. When Sherlock appeared at his door, Lestrade had almost punched him. In fact, he'd tried. Sherlock, anticipating the gesture, ducked. 

Lestrade had seen John, and then reported to Sherlock. Had been there to witness the blank stare and the life drained from his body. He had been the first to respond that fateful day. John was broken, by the sight. He had given up. From talking to some of the nurses, he had been irate at first demanding to see Sherlock. He had pounded on every surface available and shouted rather rude things at doctors who didn't even have anything to do with the attempted resuscitation of Sherlock's lifeless body. When Lestrade arrived, John didn't move and didn't talk. He barely looked like he was breathing. He just stared down at the bloody grey coat in his hands. It was a look that still haunted Lestrade's dreams. He could never imagine what it would be like to lose your entire world. What made it worse, the coat he had clutched to so desperately had disappeared. Lestrade took every moment available to remind Sherlock of how much he tortured John. 

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do with this impulse to protect, he tried not to dwell on it too much. He was aware that there was a affinity between them, but never thought it of as anything more than a companionship. He was afraid to admit it as friendship again after being rejected at the bank in front of Wilkes. That was until the Baskerville case when John became agitated concerning the subject. He cared about what affected John. He couldn't contemplate why, but he did. He was never concerned for anyone besides himself. He was selfish, it was his who he was.

Sherlock was convinced John would return to his previous life before he interrupted it. Nothing appeared more true than when he was watching John exiting his sister's house and heading for a cab. It was almost indistinguishable, but nothing was indistinguishable for Sherlock despite the great distance. He could see John favouring his left foot over his right. The thought felt like a blow to the gut, it wouldn't be long before he was completely limping again. Just the idea of the cane made it impossible to keep looking at his former friend. 

_____________________

 

John: 

John was nervous when he opened up the door to 221. He had braced himself, but the knot that formed in his chest was overwhelming as he looked around the foyer and had to catch himself slightly on the door frame. He hurried inside hoping no passerby took notice. 

He glanced at Mrs. Hudson's door. It was the middle of the night so he knew that she was asleep. He wanted to surprise her in the morning. The anticipation built in him as he ascended the staircase. He had recreated this moment a thousand times in his mind, but when he opened the door, it was as if nothing had changed. It still looked like _their_ flat. The thought made him want to break down, but he forced his military self forward to crowd out the emotion. He noticed some of Sherlock's equipment had been taken somewhere leaving a mostly clean table. Everywhere else around the flat he felt Sherlock, but the table felt oddly vacant. He picked up some of his previous flat mate's books and placed them there. 

He soon went to bed. It was dark, he was exhausted, and the street was being uncharacteristically quiet tonight. Not a single noise could be heard. Everything was perfect for sleeping, but John couldn't stop tossing and turning in his small bed. He didn't even feel safe with his back pressed up against the wall like he normally did. 

About halfway through the night, he gave up. He knew what it was, but didn't want to admit it out loud. He headed downstairs to Sherlock's room. He hesitated before opening it. This was Sherlock's space and John wanted nothing more than to feel surrounded by him, but it was private. He had rarely entered the room before. 

Sherlock was known to keep a messy house and his bedroom was no exception. It was pilled with books in many different languages. Clippings of different cases were scattered around the desk. There was also a venus fly trap sitting on the window sill. He was surprised that it wasn't dead yet and wondered why Sherlock would have it in the first place. John was relieved not to see any visible experiments laying around. He was very careful not to disturb any of his belongings. Sherlock had a large bed sitting the middle of room. It was never something that John would have ever felt comfortable in before. When he climbed in the sheets he could smell Sherlock so strongly it was almost as if sitting next to him after a shower. He breathed in deeply, allowing it to fill his lungs. His heart clenched as he fell asleep pressing his face into Sherlock's pillow. 

_____________________

 

Sherlock: 

Was this what it was like to have a friend? To care about their safety and worry about their feelings? He wasn't sure even after all this time and it still plagued him on occasion. It took all he had not to run up to John and comfort him when he saw him stumble entering their ( _his_ , he reminded himself) flat. 

He allowed a few of Mycroft's surveillance team to watch John once Sherlock confirmed there were no threats in any of the immediate area. He had to keep going on he Moran case. He worked on it every spare moment he could. He couldn't remember the last time he had actually slept, and he snacked on food only when absolutely necessary. 

He was chasing after one of his leads through the streets of Madrid when he almost crashed right into Irene. He had flown to Spain last minute following a possibility of gaining contact with someone close to Moran. It was bright day, and the breeze created a pleasant atmosphere. The streets seemed to be awakened with children getting off school. Sherlock did a double take as he tried to pass her. She had grasped on to his arm realising who just ran full tilt into her. He scanned the crowd again and tried pulling away, but it was hopeless. He had lost sight of the man he had been chasing, and it was doubtful he would find him in this crowd. 

“Sherlock. My goodness, you're alive. It's really you,” Irene said sounding astonished. Her eyes flickering brightly beneath uncommonly light makeup. 

Sherlock sighed rolling his eyes. “Of course I am. You know more than anyone that no one interesting actually dies in this city,” he continued glancing around to catch a glimpse of his lead. 

Irene adjusted her jacket and Sherlock took note of her attire. She had recently come from a clients house by the state of her dress, but it was one she was getting too emotionally attached to by the her stance and the need to walk around the park alone in the bitterly cold weather. Her hair was pinned up in a way that spoke only of business, but her face told a softer story. It wouldn't be the first time that she got too involved with a job. 'Maybe her skills were starting to slip,' Sherlock thought to himself. 

Irene looped her arm through Sherlock's and tried to get him to walk with her. “How are things going?” She asked. 

Frustrated, Sherlock yanked his arm free, and began to walk in the opposite direction. He stopped four steps away, and turned back to her. “Wait, maybe you can assist me with something,” He realised. “You were involved with Moriarty's crime ring. You would know more than most.” He smiled falsely, hopefully not putting her too far off. “Come with me. We'll get dinner.” 

_____________________

 

John:

From Sherlock's bed, he could hear motion in the flat below. It must be Mrs. Hudson moving around. He probably should go give her a heads up about his return before he frightened her. He stopped by his room and grabbed his thick bath robe. He tried not to dwell on the thought that he had slept so well in Sherlock's bed. It had been the first night in six months he hadn't woken up screaming. 

Mrs. Hudson seemed pleased to have John back. She even came up to make him tea. They sat in awkward silence at the book riddled table before she eventually excused herself and returned to her own flat. 

If there was anything that John was able to cope with, it was long stretches of time with little to do. He had done plenty of waiting around between battles in the army, and learned to entertain an overgrown six-year-old between cases. John got dressed, made breakfast, read the paper with breakfast, turned on the news incase anything wasn't covered in the paper, ignored the feelings of loneliness and sadness, attempted to preform his job correctly at the clinic, took a walk around Regent's Park, called Harry to check in, made lunch, surfed the internet, spot cleaned so he didn't disturb any of Sherlock's things, watched crap telly, grabbed some take away, checked his blog (but never updated), watched a movie until he was almost confused with drowsiness, and fell asleep in Sherlock's bed.

It wasn't until then that he let himself think the thoughts that plagued his mind. Finalising every night thinking it would be so much easier to end it completely. To take his own life. No one ever depended on him, or would miss him for too long. He wouldn't have someone like John to continue to grieve for him endlessly. He always thought about it, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He didn't want to imagine what Sherlock would think of his thoughts, and just continued on as he was. He couldn't stand to disappoint him. Even if he wasn't there. Even in death. 

John repeated until his days were incoherent.

_____________________

 

Sherlock: 

Sherlock's choice of restaurant could never be mistaken for romantic. Irene would have had more luck finding fine dinning at a petrol station. This establishment had sandwiches wrapped up in paper and served with crisps. They were lucky to get a quality beverage within a three kilometre radius. 

Sherlock leaned across the table completely ignoring his own food, he was just employing dinner as a formality. “Tell me everything, and I do mean everything, you know about Moriarty's closest associates.” 

“Aren't we in a rush?” Irene commented nibbling on a crisp. “You really didn't believe that was how this was going to work, did you? Its not as if we're dear old friends.” 

“It's because of me that you are still alive, and it was my actions that lead to Moriarty's death. It would seem like the least you could do for me.” Sherlock may not know much about social etiquette, but he did know enough about debt. As far as he was concerned, Irene owed him a lot. This appeared logical enough. “You're a clever enough woman, you have to know that you are obligated to tell me.” 

Irene took a sip of her water and placed it back on the table. “Trust me, I am trying to pay you back. There is more that you need. More than you even know.” She crossed her legs and leaned forward. “This is how this is going to work. You will ask a question and I will answer to the best of my abilities and I will do the same. No matter how ridiculous the question.” Sherlock sat back frustrated that she was wanting him to play such a simple game. “You know there is no other way to get the information from me. I can't be bribed or tortured. You tried everything before when you attempted to unlock my phone.” 

“Which I did.” He reminded her. 

“Yes, but do you really want it to take that long again? I thought you said this information was of the pressing nature.” 

He raised his eyebrows in defeat. “Alright. I'll go first. What do you know about Sebastian Moran?” 

“How's John?” She returned, unhappy that he was trying to take control of her game. She waited for an answer. 

Sherlock gritted his teeth answering first. “I'm not sure.” He reminded himself that this was going to help. The game was just a formality. 

Irene smiled. “I don't know much about him. You're going to have to do better than that if we are going to get anywhere.” 

Moments from exploding, Sherlock gripped the table while answering. “He is depressed. His limp might be returning. He'll get better. He'll get over it.” 

“He doesn't know you are still alive then. Interesting.” 

“I already answered your question. Its your turn.” Sherlock rephrased the rules. 

Irene pushed her food away abandoning it completely. “It wasn't a question. Just a statement of facts. Moran was Moriarty's right hand man. He was the only one who knew how things were run. He isn't as powerful as Moriarty, but don't think for a moment that he isn't as deadly. He was in charge of the dirty work while Moriarty was the insane puppet master.” She paused. “You were forced off that building, how? Why did you jump?” 

“I had determined that was Moriarty's plan early in the game. It started when I contacted Molly, a mortician at Saint Bart's. Together we came up with a plan that would make it appear that I had died without-.” 

“Not how you survived, that is unimportant,” She interrupted and Sherlock looked slightly dumbfounded. “Why you jumped. What could he have done to force you to take such dramatic measures. It wasn't a threat against your safety obviously.” It could be argued that Irene was the only remaining person in London whose cunningness could compare to Sherlock's. 

“Moriarty was going to kill John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn't commit the ultimate surrender. Choosing to commit suicide was the final act of submission,” Sherlock commented. “What is the best way to get in touch with Moran? I need to find him.” 

Irene shrugged. “I don't know. How do you get in touch with any criminal mastermind? You don't normally want to. They'll find you.” 

“It'll be far too late then. I don't want him to find me. That means bad things for those mentioned before if he does.” 

Irene tried to appear nonchalant. “Best advice I could give on that matter is to find Jess Ferule. He is as high as you could get without getting caught, or giving me away. He is a bit of a flipper, and would probably spill his guts if even slightly threatened. It's how I became involved with Moriarty. He is only kept around for his skill with avoiding police investigations,” she continued without a beat. “Why didn't you allow John to go with you when meeting Moriarty? Don't you think that he would have followed you up to that rooftop? He may have been able to save you.” 

Sherlock slammed his fists down on the table. “He would have followed me right over the damn side of it too!” He leaned forward. He had lowered his voice but he was still speaking angrily and with urgency. “If Moriarty was threatening him, and he knew about it, there would be no way he would allow me to die for him. He still wouldn't have been able to convince me other wise, and it would have ended up with us both getting killed. This way no one dies. Isn't this better for everyone? His life is better without me. The moment I get Moran off of him, I'll leave him alone for good.” 

“I may not have your deducing abilities Sherlock, but I could see the pain in your face when you talked of his depression. If he is limping again, then do you really think that being separated is really the best for either of you? Do you think that you do not complete each other in a way that no one ever possibly could? Yes, John would eventually take a wife, make a family, and live his life like he was supposed to before you interrupted it. He'll get over your death. Move on, but is that right? Don't you think you should leave that for him to decide, or are you just afraid that he will still pick you over everything else?” 

_____________________

 

Lestrade:

After Sherlock informed him that John had returned to Baker Street, he decided it was time for a reunion. Lestrade had never forgotten John's mask of despair, but he hoped he would have gathered himself together by now. 

John answered after the second knock. He took a look around the flat, and it was the same as much as Lestrade could tell. The small room crowded with Sherlock's things. John was even sporting a small smile after laying eyes on him. He reached out and shook his hand in a friendly gesture.

“Greg, its good to see you.” John directed him inward. 

Lestrade noticed the amount of stagnate pressure that had filled the room. John had obviously not done anything in the hopes of moving forward. At least now he was hiding it from the public. “How are things going? I heard you were back on this side of town.” 

John cocked his head to the side slightly. “Who told you I was back, exactly?” 

Lestrade could feel the blood rushing to his face as he quickly thought up a lie. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, nervously. “Anderson saw you out one day. He told me.” 

It obviously didn't take much to convince John right now because he was nodding his head. “How's everything going at the Scotland Yard?” 

“Pretty dull admittedly after winding up the Moriarty case. Once we cleared Sherlock's name up, there was just the average murder or break in here and there. Its been fairly quiet.” Lestrade watched as John almost visibly flinched at the mention of Sherlock's name. 

He just nodded again not saying anything. 

“Things been quiet around here?” Lestrade asked grasping for any sort of topic that wouldn't be too uncomfortable. It was hard knowing that the person in front of you is suffering because of the death of another person you know very much to be alive. 

“Eerily so,” He responded absentmindedly.

“Why don't you come out with me and some of the guys tonight? I think it would be good for both of us. My wife is playing another one of her games, and I could use a break. Would you like to help me out a bit?” Lestrade asked knowing to appeal to John's nurturing, doctor side. 

John plastered on that same small fake smile as when Lestrade arrived. “I think that would be good,” He replied reluctantly. 

_____________________

 

Sherlock:

“You're doing what?” Sherlock demanded after meeting with Lestrade to pass on the information he obtained. “Do I have to remind you that he was threatening your life as well. If you care about John at all you won't go out tonight.” 

Lestrade folded his hands on the desk. “Why does it matter to you? We both know you are a sociopath and incapable about caring about anyone else. You are debited to John for hurting him. Once you settle this debt you won't want anything more to do with him.” 

Sherlock looked like he had just been slapped. In the face. Hard. His eyes narrowed as he almost straddled the desk. “You think I don't care about John? I wish I didn't, but I do. So there. Now you have it.” Sherlock turned to leave. 

As he headed out the door Lestrade began to speak and he turned to look at him. “Still doesn't change my answer, Sherlock. He needs out of that house. You haven't seen him like I have. It is slowly killing him to be live there.” 

_____________________

 

John:

He unlocked the door to 221 and stumbled up the stairs. It would be a miracle if he didn't wake Mrs. Hudson. As much as he was dreading the night out with Lestrade, he made up for it with drinks. John knew his limit to keep his wits. Tonight he stepped way over that limit and jump roped with its distant cousin. It was surprising he even made it home okay. He probably wouldn't have if it wasn't for Lestrade showing him to the door. Honestly, he didn't care one way or the other. Being out with people from Sherlock's past made it really hard not to think about him. He couldn't think of a single friend he had that didn't remind him of Sherlock. John wanted just for a moment to go without obsessing about him. Even with the massive amount of alcohol, he hadn't accomplished that. 

He didn't even bother to get into pyjamas as he made his way to Sherlock's room and stripped off his jumper and trousers. His thoughts turned once more to ending it all. To stop the hurt it took to be without Sherlock. He crawled between the sheets, that smelt less like him every day, and wept. A cry without restraint or dignity for the first time since that first June 16th.

_____________________

 

Sherlock:

Even with Lestrade accompanying him, Sherlock still followed John closely. He couldn't be positive John wouldn't do anything stupid. The time between his watches seemed to grow shorter and shorter. He waited in a cafe across from the pub while John had his fun with Lestrade. Choosing a table close to the window so he could watch the entrance, he attempted to work on the case on his phone. Jotting down possibilities to contemplate at a more relaxed time.

Hearing the bell ring when the door opened was a surprise. It was late at night, and other than himself, it was empty. He looked up to find Mycroft. Sherlock scowled at him as he took the seat opposite. 

“Hello, brother,” he greeted and placed his umbrella in an empty chair. 

“I thought you didn't frequent cafes,” Sherlock mumbled not looking up from his phone. 

“I don't. That's why you should listen to what I have to say. Don't you think this has gone on long enough? We're not any closer to catching Moran-” 

“Yes we are,” Sherlock interrupted. “We know who to contact now.” 

Mycroft continued as if Sherlock didn't even speak. “You are just making the both of you miserable. I recognise that you don't believe that I care about your happiness, but you are no longer useful. You spend every moment watching John mope around. At least if you went to him, and told him you were alive, you would be focused. We could finally get this all over with. You know John acts like a conduit to your thoughts.” 

Sherlock ignored him punching buttons on his phone. Checking dates and times. Looking for any sign of Ferule in any online articles. He knew it was a long shot. Ferule was obviously an alias. No one would be stupid to use their real name.

“I know you are incapable, but let us not act like a child. You know that you are nothing without him. You need his assistance whether you like it or not.” 

Sherlock dropped his phone on the table. “Yes, but is he better with me? If you only had one friend in the world would you put them in danger because you need them so you can work. I realise everyone thinks that I'm selfish, and I am. I don't have any false connotations about myself. But John deserves to be happy. He deserves a normal life.” 

Mycroft slightly cocks his head. “Yes, but is that what he wants? Have you ever read his blog? He hated his boring life. It was only through danger that he got his life back. Through you.” Mycroft paused as Sherlock picked up his phone again. “If you don't tell him that you're alive, I will.” Sherlock stared at him in disbelief, and with a flurry of coats and an umbrella Mycroft was gone. 

Sherlock was fuming, and he was aware that his brother didn't bluff. He wasn't lying. He was done with the charade and it was ending one way or another. “Damn, Mycroft,” Sherlock whispered to himself. He wondered if it would be better for John to hear it from someone else. That way, Sherlock could avoid the initial emotions that would be involved. He cursed himself. John deserved better than that. Sherlock still wasn't sure how one was supposed to treat a friend, but he was trying to be a better one. 

He thought back to that day on the rooftop, when he cried for the first time since he was a small child. Most people probably thought that he had cried for his own life. For his journey's end, but that wasn't the case. He knew that he would live and everything would be okay. He cried for John. For the pain he was about to cause him. For the days of misery ahead of him. He wanted more than anything to protect his friend. He just hoped that it was enough of a reason for all his pain. 

_____________________

 

John:

He woke with a pounding headache. It took him a second to remember what had occurred. Then the pub popped in his head, and the mystery was solved. He got out of bed, making it quickly, then picked up his clothes and shut the door behind him. He directed himself to the kitchen to grab some medicine for the drum chorus showcasing in his head. Just before stepping to the counter his knee seemed to give out and he caught himself. 

He wasn't completely unaware what was going on. He knew his brain was overthinking his limp, and it was slowly returning. He thought that he could get rid of it by maybe assisting Lestrade, an idea he brought up last night, but Lestrade was insistent to say that it was quiet at Scotland Yard. John just assumed that they thought he wasn't useful without Sherlock. He may not be able to deduce their entire life, but he could give a medical opinion, and it was always better to have two rather than one.

He took the medicine and went to find his chair. Life without Sherlock really was boring. 

_____________________

 

Sherlock:

“How are you going to do it?” Mycroft asked. He had come over to Sherlock's “new” flat to remind him not too subtly that telling John had to be done. His flat was just a little ways down the street on the opposite of 221. 

“I honestly do not know.” Sherlock was still wearing his dressing gown and sulking in a chair. “Do you just go over and say, 'Hi, I'm not dead. Let me move back in.'” 

Mycroft leaned on his umbrella. “It would be a starting point. I don't expect John is going to be very happy when he sees you.” 

Sherlock looked at him inquisitively. He might be able to know what you had to eat last week by the weight you gained, but social traditions really were lost on him. “You remember what happened when you told Lestrade. You almost sported an imprint of his ring on your head. John was hurt much more. It's possible that he could lash out.” 

An idea sprung into Sherlock's head. “What if I ask Molly to come in and explain it all to John before I just show up. She knows more than anyone how I survived, and with her being a woman, John won't punch her.” 

Mycroft nodded. “While I think it is a good idea for you to warn him before showing up, I think that he may still take a swing at you. You're really going to hide behind a girl?” 

Sherlock leaped to his feet. “It's the best idea I have. She won't mind. I'll text Molly.” 

_____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to the wonderful beta [WritingQuill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill) ! She has been amazing through this mountainous process.


	2. A Difficult Reunion

John: 

The cab ride to Saint Bart's was never ending. Molly had texted him asking for his assistance with a body that she had been examining and John wondered for a moment if Lestrade had inquired if he could be of assistance at the hospital. It was the only plausible explanation since she was in a building full of doctors and asked for one who hadn't practiced in almost seven months. John wasn't going to complain, though. He would take every distraction he was offered. 

Molly had asked him to meet her in the lab of all places. He was of no absolutely no use with any micro-things. Sure he had some training, but nothing that he thought would help a dead person. John opened the door to find Molly looking at some x-rays on the light box. He stood next to her. “What are we looking at here?” 

“Death by head injury. Do you see the fracture in the skull there.” She pointed to the crack in the image. “He was struck with something. I just can't figure out what just yet,” Molly replied. She rotated to face John and hugged him tightly. “It's good to see you.” 

He was taken aback. “Really? I didn't think that you cared for me all that much.” 

She looked at him incredulously. “Of course I did. You were always so nice. Take a seat. I really need to talk to you about something.” 

He perched on one of the tall stools. “Yes, what case do you need assistance on? The death by blow one?” He motioned with his hands as spoke.

She took the nearby seat. “No, that one is pretty straight forward. Even if I can't find the murder weapon, the motive was fairly clear. He was having an affair. After his murder the wife took off, and they're trying to locate her now.” She crossed her legs and placed her hands on her knee. “It's actually the circumstances around Sherlock's death that I believe you need to be informed of.” 

Upon hearing the name, John wanted to bolt. He didn't want to talk about Sherlock. It was bad enough that he tried every second of every day to get him out of his head. Talking would only make it worse, but John didn't want to seem rude. He waited patiently. 

“Sherlock knew a few days before meeting Moriarty on the roof that he was going to die. He deduced it somehow. You know, the way only he could. Realised it was the only path for the circumstances. I recognised the look when he wasn't concealing it for you. He was afraid that you would realise what was going to happen. I know that I never counted much. We talked about it and that was always the one thing he came to me for. Besides the lab and body parts, of course. We talked about you. Although you know that already from when I told you he complained to me at the Christmas party about you leaving for your sister's.” Molly noticed that she was getting off track. “Anyway, he knew that Moriarty would threaten the three people he ever felt close to. You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. That's why he distracted you with the phone call. He went to that roof to save you, more than anyone. If he didn't fall to his death, then the three of you would have been shot.” 

John looked at her in disbelief. If he had known that was the real reason for his suicide, then he never would have let him out of his sight. But what would he have done about Lestrade? Lestrade had a family. A wife and a little daughter to take care of. What about sweet Mrs. Hudson? Choosing between his life and someone else’s was never really a choice. John would die for the ones he loved and he realised Sherlock wasn't so different in that aspect. 

This was proof that Sherlock actually did care about someone else. The world never thought so, but John always knew. He could see it in how protective Sherlock was of Mrs. Hudson, and how he always defended Lestrade. He supposed it was also in the way he cared about John's feelings. Like when they were at Baskerville and he actually apologised because he had hurt John. Sherlock never apologised. 

Feeling too overcome, he could only nod. 

“This is where the story gets a little muddled,” she admitted and he became concerned. “Its good news, don't worry. John, Sherlock needed you to believe he had died. He needed you to believe for your own safety.” 

John could feel his heart drumming in his own ears. His face was getting hot. What was she saying? He was repressing the feeling of hope. He knew hope was a paralyser. He couldn't afford to hope. Not when he had come so far. 

“We discussed how he could survive the fall, but appear dead,” she articulated deliberately. 

A knot formed in John's stomach, and he felt as if he could get sick. “What are you trying to tell me?” he demanded. 

“Sherlock survived, and is alive.” A thin smile spread widely across Molly's face. 

John's body went numb. He wasn't sure what was keeping him planted on the stool because he couldn't feel his legs or his arms. All he could feel was his heart beating through out his body and his mind screaming _Sherlock _IS_ alive_.

Molly looked a little weary at his reaction, but put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know you probably feel betrayed, but I promise he originally planned to tell you as soon as he caught Moriarty's Lieutenant.”

Her words weren't registering with John. He just needed to see Sherlock. He needed to know that this wasn't a horrible joke. He wouldn't allow himself to believe until he saw for himself. “Wh-where is he?” He mumbled. 

Molly was standing next to him now in case he made a plummet to the floor. “Waiting on our okay. He wanted to break it to you as easily as he could.” 

“C-call him,” John stammered. 

Molly whipped out her phone and started pressing buttons. John stood up and tried not to appear as weak as he felt. He couldn't let any vulnerability show through. 

A moment later the door opened and Sherlock came striding in like it was any other day, still wearing that blasted coat. Like he hadn't just come back from being dead for seven months. He stopped in the middle of the room. John had expected his face to look smug, but it didn't. It looked concerned. John wasn't sure if he wanted to punch Sherlock or hug him. Could he get away with both? Probably not. Sherlock would see it coming. John was angry that he was put through all that pain. That was the most forefront thought of his mind, but there was a small piece of him asking what if the roles had been reversed. What would he do to save his friends? He knew his answer. He would do anything it took. 

_____________________

Sherlock: 

He could read the anger written across John's face. He was so relieved that John finally knew, and he could stop mourning. It broke something inside of Sherlock to see him grieve like that. Sherlock approached John slowly, expecting a hit in the jaw. A massive strike that would hurt for weeks and leave a nasty scar. He wasn't going to duck and avoid it. He deserved to be hit and John needed to let out some of his rage. When he wasn't getting anything more than blank stares, he spoke. “Go ahead, hit me. I'm not going to dodge it.” 

John did something that surprised even Sherlock. Had he really forgotten how John was the one person who could ever surprise him? 

John hugged him. Sherlock adjusted the added weight and hugged him back, half holding him on his feet. 

John must have realised what he had done because he pulled away almost as quickly as it had happened. Sherlock may not respect people's personal space, but he was known to not like emotions. He sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his face. 

“Let's go home,” Sherlock said. 

_____________________

 

John: 

This wasn't exactly what John had thought when Sherlock wanted to go “home”. He was picturing 221B, not 328 Baker Street. Was this where Sherlock had been staying? It was a ways down from their actual flat. Sherlock explained that he couldn't be sure that Moran wasn't watching, so he had Mycroft's men checking it for cameras and wires. He supposed the lackeys were good for something. 

This place didn't look like it was actually lived-in. There was only a chair, that appeared half dilapidated, and a couch. There wasn't a bed or even a refrigerator. There didn't appear to be any food present in the whole flat except bread on the counter. There wasn't a telly, or books, or test tubes, or anything that Sherlock normally liked to surround himself with. He knew he didn't need much when he was on a case, but this was bare. 

Sherlock took a seat in the chair after hanging his coat over the counter. John sat on the sofa. “So if you haven't solved the Moran case, why did you tell me you were still alive?” John asked still feeling his entire body tingling with shock. 

“Wasn't my idea. Mycroft thought that I was less efficient without your assistance, and threatened to tell you if I didn't.” Sherlock steepled his hands, looking past John out the window. 

“How long would you have waited to tell me?” John questioned accusingly. 

Sensing his tone, Sherlock tried to divert the anger. “As long as it took to keep you safe.” 

“So who knows that you're not, you know, dead?” John leaned forward and linked his fingers together. 

“Molly, since she helped me orchestrate it. I needed Mycroft to know for obvious reasons, and he had to keep Mummy informed. We couldn't have her doing anything rash. Then I had to have Lestrade help me with the leg work. That's all. Well besides you.” 

John supposed he shouldn't be shocked, but he was. “So Lestrade knew, but didn't say anything. Even after the other night?” 

“He wanted to tell you immediately,” Sherlock defended. “I asked him not to.” 

“So are you coming back to our flat?” John asked trying to keep his cool. He didn't want to be in that place alone again. He wanted to wake up, and know he hadn't dreamed all of this. Even with the enigma that was Sherlock sitting before him, he thought he would just wake up at any moment. He couldn't imagine the pain, if that was true.

Sherlock arched his eyebrow looking at him. “Are you sure you want me to? I'm not the easiest flatmate to have, and you just got rid of me.” 

John stared at him confused. He hadn't forgotten all the arguments they had got into about picking up some milk while he was out, or borrowing John's laptop, or finding body parts in the fridge, or the place constantly being covered by Sherlock's things. He missed the wailing of a violin at three in the morning, or the quiet when Sherlock was in one of his moods where he didn't want to do anything except veg out on the sofa. He missed Sherlock. “Of course I want you to move back in.” 

“Good,” Sherlock said smacking his hands against the arms of the chair and standing up. He strode into the next room and returned a moment later with a suitcase. “They say that the place is all clean. We can go.” 

 

It was advantageous that John was a doctor because Mrs. Hudson almost fainted when they told her about his survival. He knew enough to catch her. Once she regained her cognisance, she banged against Sherlock's chest with her fists as he pulled her in for a hug. It was clear that Sherlock wasn't comfortable with it, but he would do anything for Mrs. Hudson. She hugged him back tightly. She stayed for tea once she finished crying. There were many pats on Sherlock's hand as she mumbled out words of delight, but then left them to 'discuss things', as she had put it. 

Strangely, after she left, John wasn't sure what to say. What did you say to someone who had just come back from the dead? “I still can't believe you're here,” he uttered. It could have been worse. 

Sherlock looked at him sympathetically. It was that same look that Sherlock had given him after John told him he didn't have to imagine what he would say if he was dying. A look very rarely to cross the face of Sherlock Holmes. “I'm here,” he said quietly. As if to punctuate the statement, Sherlock carried his suitcase into his room. 

John picked up the paper mulling it over for a moment when Sherlock returned. He looked agitated. “One of Mycroft's men must have flipped my bed because the blankets are all muddled.”

John held up the paper to block his face. He knew, if he wasn't already, he soon would be blushing. 

Sherlock continued ranting. “I swear they have no respect for anyone's things.” He sat down in his chair with a huff. He glanced up at John seeing he was very interested in the paper. “What's wrong?” He asked. 

John cleared his throat. “Nothing.” He took a few deep quiet breaths and laid it down. Hoping the colour had drained from his face by then. “What happens now?” John asked moving to his chair. 

Sherlock did that half listening face then raised his eyebrow to question what he just said. “Hmm?” 

John, patient with him as always, repeated his question. “How do we go from here. Obviously you don't want more people to know you're alive, right?” 

“I think it would be best. It shouldn't be too hard, I just have to stay out of the public eye. The common people wouldn't recognise me. Although, Irene did,” Sherlock drifted off in thought. 

“Wait, what? Irene. The Woman? She is still alive?” He paused, his face scrunching up. “She knew before I did?” John leaned forward furiously. The Woman. The Woman was still alive and was informed about Sherlock's return before he had. Aggression boiled in his stomach. 

“Not by choice. We ran into each other. Literally. It was hard to fake being dead after that.” Sherlock picked at something invisible on his trousers, the wanker.

“So what did you do? Catch up? Have a good laugh about everyone who was grieving your death?” John's voice grew louder as did his anger. 

“We had dinner,” Sherlock replied simply. 

John couldn't believe it. They were distraught over his death, and he was out flirting with a criminal. John got up to go to his room, but stopped at the base of the stairs. “Why am I always the last to know?” He didn't wait for an answer and headed upstairs.

“According to Irene, we both are the last to know anything about ourselves,” John heard Sherlock mumble beneath his breath as he pulled the door closed. 

It was quiet in his room. Too quiet. He didn't like it. He had it up to his eyeballs in quiet. He needed noise and rambunctious behaviour. He didn't want to go back downstairs. It seemed silly to storm off if he just went right back down, but he also needed to know that Sherlock wasn't leaving. He didn't want him to go anywhere. He didn't want the possibility that this wasn't real. 

He was laying in bed and staring at the dark ceiling when there was a knock on his door. “John, can I come in?” Sherlock's voice came from the other side. 

“No,” John said, remembering it was very un-Sherlock to even knock. 

Almost upon thinking it, Sherlock entered anyway. John just glared in his direction then turned his attention back to the ceiling. Sherlock sat down on the bed next to John looking at him for a bit of time, waiting on a reaction. John wasn't going to give up that easily. Surrendering, Sherlock laid down next to John and joined him in the Watching of the Blank Ceiling. 

John's first thought automatically jumped to how close Sherlock was. Sherlock never respected John's personal space before, although he seemed to dislike being crowded by anyone else. This was different, though. They were laying down and John thought he had sensed electricity in the air between them. He chalked it up to nervous energy because he had never felt that way about a man. He wasn't gay, after all. “Sherlock, what are you thinking about?” John asked quietly after it seemed neither was going to make a move.

“That the previous owner of this room made for an interesting person. Somehow they were able to smoke a lot of pot, without getting caught, employed as a steady journalist, and had a passion for reading. Seems like a lot on the plate of a simple minded person,” he answered. 

“Wait, what? Never mind. I don't want to know.” John crossed his arms over his chest. He was strangely aware that he didn't know what to do with them. Putting them at his side would place his over Sherlock's.

“I was also wondering what Irene said.” 

John rolled his eyes, sighing audibly. “What did Irene say?” he asked knowing he would regret it. He didn't like that woman. She did something to Sherlock that John wasn't comfortable with. Sherlock wasn't himself around her. 

Sherlock rolled onto his side and propped his head up on his elbow. He watched John's face, that still refused to look at him. “She said that I needed something of which I was not aware,” He paused, but John still glared at the ceiling. “She said I needed you.” 

John was agitated. “As your assistant? As a replacement for your skull in public?” 

“No.” Sherlock placed his hand on John's arm. That got him to turn and look at him. “As much more than an assistant. That was Mycroft's remark. Not mine and not one I would even consider spending time on. I know you are a great conductor of remarkable thoughts. I think better when I'm around you, but you know that you are more than that, right?” 

John pressed his eyebrows together. “As what? A colleague, a friend when its convenient for you?” 

He seemed to get frustrated. “Not when its convenient for me. A friend always. John you're the only friend I've ever had. I'm sorry if I am not good at the friendship part of it, but I am trying.” Sherlock's face had that vulnerable look about it. One he never let anyone else see. 

Yet here was John staring directly at him, and he was seeing it. Sherlock wasn't being so guarded. He was trusting John in his own way. Trusting him not to be judged. It struck him what Sherlock had just said, and John felt bad for him. He never had a friend before. No one to share anything with. It sounded so very lonely. John thought about the “dark days”. He imagined it would be a lot like that. John looked at his watch. “It's getting late, how about some take away?” John got up out of bed and reached his hand out to Sherlock. He took it and allowed John to help pull him up. 

 

John had decided to get food on his own and bring it back to the flat. He thought it would be better if Sherlock wasn't walking around in public when he should be taking up space in the cemetery. He never thought that something logical would have trouble convincing Sherlock. How wrong he was. 

“Absolutely not,” Sherlock demanded. “I have not followed you all this time to let you out my sight now.”' 

John sighed, putting on his coat. He hated being treated like a child. He wasn't sure why Sherlock just now started thinking he was one. “I'll be fine. You said yourself that Mycroft's men are crawling all around this place. I can walk down the street by myself. We don't even know that they have any interest in me at all any more. Plus, Moran isn't watching the flat.” 

“I'm coming. That is final.” Sherlock reached out for his coat. 

John smacked his hand away. “You don't think that is a big red flag. Everyone knows you by the coat. Well that and the cheekbones. Since we can't change your face, it'll have to be the coat.” 

“You're kidding me. What do you expect me to do? Freeze to death. It is supposed to snow later.” Sherlock tried reaching out for his precious coat again only to have John to swat him away like a fly. 

“I have something you could wear.” John disappeared back up the stairs. 

Sherlock shouted at him through his open door. “Anything you have is not going to fit me. It will be way too short and I'll look like a buffoon.” 

“It's not my fault you are a giant.” John said coming down the stairs. He was carrying it in his hands, and handed it over as Sherlock eyed it doubtfully. “Just try it.” 

Sherlock slipped it on. It was an incredibly simple brown jacket. Had to be partially polyester. It definitely wasn't his coat, but it did ride too high. It was long on John, and he had a hunch it would have worked.

“It looks good.” John said examining his handy work. “You look like a common person.” His eyes glanced up to his face. “Well almost. It'll work for now.” 

The Chinese take away was located about two blocks down the street, but they didn't get half way before Sherlock started shivering. John could almost hear his teeth chattering. “John, do you understand the concept of a good coat? Looks good, keeps you warm. This does neither of them.” Sherlock's hands were shoved so far down in the pockets John thought they might burst through. 

“Yes, but it doesn't make you look like an annoying prick,” John commented, but regretted it when Sherlock didn't take it as a joke. He began taking longer strides, and John struggled to keep up. John's first thought was that they all didn't look like praying mantises with incredibly long legs, but kept it to himself after the last joke didn't go over too well.

Finally arriving to their destination, they ducked inside to warm up while they waited on their food. Sherlock was blowing hot air into his hands trying to warm them. John rolled his eyes. Just because he couldn't bring his jacket didn't mean that he couldn't bring his gloves. 

John ordered quite an arrangement of food. He doubted Sherlock would eat much, but he wanted to have to option if he felt like it. Whatever was left could be used for leftovers, or become victims in an experiment that Sherlock could perform. He made a mental note to tell him to mark anything that was used for experiment when sticking it back in the fridge, before he made that suggestion. 

John carried the food as they headed back to the flat. He didn't say anything when Sherlock strode ahead of him, and hurried to get home. 

They settled down for their meal in front of the television. John was surprised when Sherlock actually picked up a fork and started eating. Not picking at his food like he normally did, even between cases, but actually eating. “When was the last time you ate?” John asked watching him. He hadn't even touched his own yet. 

Sherlock swallowed his bite and seemed to be thinking. “About four days ago. I'm actually pretty hungry.” 

“My goodness, Sherlock. You have to take care of yourself,” John commented, but stopped there. He was a grown man and could do as he wished. John would just have to ignore his doctor instincts for now. He ate while watching some science program that Sherlock had turned on. He would have much rather watched a crime show, but Sherlock wasn't a pleasant person to watch them with. He knew the outcome within the first two minutes. And if not, he claimed that there was no way that they could have followed the evidence and used artistic licence to make up an extravagant villain. Science shows were safer, as long as it was something Sherlock found interesting. Unless, of course, they got something wrong. Then Sherlock would spend the whole time yelling at them about how moronic and idiotic it was. John spent most of his time stealing glances at Sherlock to make sure he was, in fact, still eating. The science must have been relatively accurate because he hadn't said much. 

John ate until he was full and started picking up the leftovers. “You finished?” John asked standing next to the couch. 

“Hmm? Oh, yes.” Sherlock had his legs pulled up to his chest and focused on the program. He had eaten about half as much as a normal individual would have. Still for him, that was excellent. John returned, throwing a pillow down on the sofa next to Sherlock. He laid down on the last two cushions with his feet curled up so he wouldn't be hanging over the edge. 

“Do you want me to move?” Sherlock asked without taking his eyes off of the television. 

“No, I'm good,” John said settling in. He didn't want to sleep upstairs. He wanted to be close enough to Sherlock's room so that he could still hear him in the morning, and not freak out that it was all a dream. It wasn't long until he fell asleep to the flickering lights and the voice of the monotone speaker. 

_____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love forever to the wonderful beta, [WritingQuill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill) . She is brilliant in every way.


	3. Things Get Complicated

John: 

John was vaguely aware of the pleasurable sensation of fingers brushing lightly through his hair as he grumbled awake. His face felt warm, like having the morning sun falling upon it. He was disoriented, and wondered if he was still in a dream. He felt light and peaceful, but it wasn't like any dream John had of late. Since his discharge from the army, he had only experienced violent nightmares. He could smell Sherlock all around him, stronger than he was able to in many months.

He could have drifted around blissfully in his dream state if it weren't for the images of the previous day flooding through his consciousness. 

His heart was racing out of his chest as he rolled himself off the sofa and onto the floor. He looked at Sherlock in the same place from last night. He didn't look the least bit effected. Still staring at the blank television screen.

“Wh-what was that?” John blundered, not moving from his post on the floor. 

Sherlock glanced at him nonchalantly. “You started moving around in your sleep, and I could tell that you were getting cramped up. You're short, but not that short, so I urged your head and pillow into my lap so you could stretch out.” 

John ran a hand over his face. He was aware that Sherlock wasn't accustomed to mainstream social behaviour. They had these conversations before, but Sherlock wasn't interested. He would continue to have John as a buffer between himself and the world. The only problem was that he didn't understand that there should be one between himself and John sometimes. John believed that Sherlock regarded him as an extension of himself. 

“It's fine,” John replied getting up off the floor. He didn't have the heart to tell Sherlock that he shouldn't be so touchy with him. He was Sherlock's only friend, and it didn't bother John all that much. He was aware Sherlock cared nothing for messy emotions, and didn't know what was deemed inappropriate since he himself had deleted any sort of feelings if he ever possessed them. “Did you not get any sleep then?” He asked folding a blanket that Sherlock must have placed over him from the back of the sofa.

“It's hard to sleep knowing Moran is still out there.” Sherlock jumped up and headed toward the kitchen. He stopped and looked at the table. John realised he probably noticed it when he came in. “Where did all my equipment go?” 

“Mrs. Hudson,” John replied simply, stretching.

He nodded. “And the books?” 

“Table seemed too empty.” John did his best not to seem to invested in the discovery.

Sherlock took John's response as a good an excuse as any and turned on the kettle. “Did you sleep okay?” Sherlock asked nervously trying to make small talk. 

“Yeah,” John responded surprised that Sherlock was attempting to make anything that didn't need to be put in a beaker first. “Sorry if I snored while you were trying to watch telly.” 

_____________________

 

Sherlock:

Sherlock pulled cups out of the cupboard and started making tea. It wasn't something he normally did, but he thought John could use some by the state of his dreams last night, and something inside of him desired to help. There was even one point where he had turned around and held on to Sherlock. The only thing that seemed to calm him down was stroking him in some way. “No, it was okay. So, what did you dream about last night?” 

Sherlock handed John a cup and took a seat beside him on the sofa. “I'm not sure. I can't remember. Why?” It looked like he had tried to hide his face.

Sherlock took a sip. It wasn't as good as John's. Actually, it was rather retched. There was a reason he didn't do tasks like these. He thought such things should be left to the professionals. Especially when there were so many within walking distance. “No reason. Just wondering. I never remember my dreams.” 

“Hmm,” John replied. He could tell by John's face that the tea was horrendous, but he wouldn't be rude. He would continue drinking it. His arm rose as he glanced at his watch. “What do you say that we get ready for the day and then you get me up to speed on the case? I feel there is a lot I have missed."

_____________________

 

John:

They each went to their own rooms and dressed for the day. Being efficient, John was down much sooner than Sherlock. With Sherlock's sudden reappearance, the flat looked as messy as his head felt. He spot cleaned what he could without doing any heavy lifting. Still no sign of his flatmate, so John sat down to check his blog. He really wanted to tell the world that Sherlock was back, but that would not be good for anyone. He could only imagine his face when he found out. Sherlock eventually appeared wearing a purple shirt and a pair of black trousers. John wondered if he ever wore anything comfortable besides when he is walking around in his dressing gown or just a sheet. To the rest of the world he was always clean, sleek lines, not a hair out of place. It made John's jeans and jumper combination seem so domestic.“So what is it that I need to know?” 

Sherlock took his seat opposite. “Not much, really. It's been a very slow moving case. Sebastian Moran is similar to Moriarty in some aspects, but much more practical and with military training to use to his advantage.” 

John adds, “I could assist there. I know the army inside and out. If he uses any tactics he learned, I could help predict them.” 

“That is true. I'm not sure how much he is drawing off of his military background, though. I know he was the lead snipper for the ring. For any difficult job, Moriarty would only trust it to him. He won't play games, but if he decides he wants us dead, then we don't have much of a chance. I had been trying to get a hold of low level criminals with a direct connection and even tried to infiltrate once, but everything turned up as a bust. Once I get rid of Moran, the rest will follow. I did get a hint from Irene Adler that the best possibility was to try a man by the name of Jess Ferule. A gutless lackey. The only problem is getting in touch with him. Mycroft has been looking into it and he'll let me know if he finds anything. Basically, until then, we just have to stay out of sight.” John nodded as the front door pushed open. 

It revealed Mrs. Hudson carrying a tray of food. She struggled to keep it away from her burgundy dress. “I just wanted to make sure you boys had a good breakfast on your first morning back.” 

John jumped up and helped her place the tray on the table. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. That was very nice of you. Right, Sherlock?” John glared in his direction. 

“Hmm? Yes, very nice.” Sherlock said barely focusing on the occurrences in front of him. His head probably running with possibilities of hiding locations or the most efficient way to chop off a head. 

“Would you like to join us?” John asked Mrs. Hudson. 

She smiled at them. “I would love that.” She set about helping John clear off the books from the table so they could sit together and eat. “Coming, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asked once the task was finished. 

He stood up and made his way to the table, finding the seat next to Mrs. Hudson. The breakfast was pancakes and sausage, and it was delicious. At least, John thought so. Sherlock picked at his food, like usual. Mrs. Hudson and John engaged in small talk as Sherlock stared into his plate. He replied monosyllabically when she asked him a question directly. Once breakfast was finished, she assisted in cleaning the kitchen.

Oddly, Sherlock announced that he was going to take a nap. The lack of sleep must have been catching up with him. 

_____________________

 

Sherlock:

He made his way to his room and fixed his bedclothes correctly before crawling in. As he settled into his pillow, he smelled something familiar. It wasn't, in fact, Mycroft's men who messed up his bed, but John must have slept in here on more than one occasion. He fell asleep quickly, thinking John must have really missed him. 

 

_____________________

 

John:

John was aware Sherlock wouldn't be out for long since never slept very long. He could usually run on four hours of sleep a night. Less than that if they were on a case. Even less if it was interesting. He wanted to use this time to sort out his thoughts. They seemed to rattle around against his skull repeatedly, and he wasn't sure what to do with them. 

Sherlock was back. That was the most affluent thought in his mind. 

The second was that he was incredibly happy about it. 

His best friend had returned from the dead. It is common that people make heroes out of the dead, but John hadn't done that to Sherlock. Had he? He didn't lie to himself, Sherlock really was a hero. It wasn't all the times he put a criminal behind bars, but that day on the rooftop that he became one. He was willing to die to save his friends. That seemed like the definition of a hero to John. 

Then why did he feel such a longing to be near him? Was it just because he missed him? Admired him for what he had done? It had to be. He didn't want to accept the alternate possibility. 

Except that it made much more sense. He thought back to the feeling of Sherlock's hand in his hair, and how much he had enjoyed it. So much that he had arched his neck into that feeling. The thought of being touched by those slender fingers sent a shiver down his spine. If John was being honest with himself, and he was desperately trying to be, he wouldn't have minded to have a repeat performance. He would love to have Sherlock do it again. 

If these were the types of feelings he was having, and he still wasn't convinced that they were, what could happen? It would definitely ruin their friendship forever. Even Sherlock couldn't tolerate the burden of unrequited pining. John could tell there was a connection between the two of them unlike anyone else in his life, but was that just because he was the only one who bothered to get to know Sherlock despite his unconventional social behaviour? Was this how one felt about a best friend? John never really had someone he could call his best friend before. 

John thought back to one of their first conversations at Angelo's. Sherlock had deduced John's attraction to him long before John himself even knew. Sherlock was hardly ever wrong. He knew how John would eventually feel about him. 

John also remembered his response. Sherlock wasn't interested in anything but his work. 

He was contemplating his absurd thoughts when he heard a knock at the door. Going across the room to open it, he found Mycroft on the other side. Of all people, John wasn't in the mood to deal with Sherlock's impossibly pretentious older brother. John would normally be delighted in making him mad, but right now he didn't feel up to the challenge. “He's asleep,” John grumbled only opening the door a crack. 

Mycroft used his umbrella and pushed it open more. “Wake him up. I need to speak with him.” Why did John always have the inclination that Mycroft was overcompensating with the umbrella? He probably was. How stupid would it be to punch the most powerful man in London? Probably not the best idea.

John opened the door to Sherlock's room and he would have loved to have a capture that moment. He wasn't neat and clean like usual, but rather a right mess. His long legs stretched out in front of him taking up nearly the whole bed, face shoved deep into his pillow. John could have swore he'd seen him smiling. He shut the door behind him and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock's curls were unruly and sticking out in every direction. John caught himself looking at the sloping shadows along Sherlock's face. Oh, he definitely was in trouble. He reached out and gently shook Sherlock's shoulder. “Wake up. Your brother needs you.” 

Sherlock pushed his face further into the pillow, not wanting ease from his slumber. He groaned something unintelligible.

John wasn't sure if he was protesting. He shook him a little harder. “Sherlock, it's time to get up.” 

This time his eyes opened reluctantly. “What is it?” He asked rubbing a hand across his face. 

John recognised his walls were down as he was waking up. “It's Mycroft. Says he needs to talk to you.” 

Normally, Sherlock would have told his brother to piss off, but he must have been concerned about the case. He shot up, standing on his bed and stepping off the edge. 

“Hello, little brother,” Mycroft greeted as they exited the bedroom. He had taken the spot in the black upholstered metal chair and Sherlock flopped down in the burgundy one opposite. John, being smart about the situation, went to lean against the table in the kitchen. He knew better than to get in the way of the Holmes brothers, especially as Sherlock was obviously grumpy about being woken up. “I just had some news about Ferule,” Mycroft mentioned. 

Sherlock was leaning forward. Much more alert. “Did you find him?” He asked. 

“Not quite,” Mycroft explained and Sherlock sat back in his chair with a huff, “but we did find out how to contact him. Apparently he doesn't only know how to detour a police investigation, but is actually involved with them. That is why he is so efficient at warding them off. We are currently trying to find out his real name. Once we know that, we'll have Lestrade pick him up.” 

“I feel useless,” Sherlock whined. “I no longer have much of a part in this investigation.” 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Once we bring him in for questioning, trust me, you'll be there. You'll have to watch him and tell the police things that they themselves are too simple-minded to see.” With no response, Mycroft got up to leave. “Try not to get into too much trouble, little brother. I already have enough to clean up.” He shut the door behind him on his way out. 

His response didn't sit well with John. It was because of Mycroft that Sherlock was in this mess. Mycroft was the one who had handed over his brother to an insane criminal. 

The flat was quiet for a good couple of minutes, and then John tried rummaging around the kitchen to look busy. He didn't want Sherlock to become embarrassed, but then thought he doubted that he was ever embarrassed about anything. John spoke first. “Do you want to finish your nap?” 

Sherlock appeared to be caught in a whirl wind when he stood up and spun around. “There is no way I could sleep now. I want to go, I want to do. Something. Anything. This is wonderful. Actual progress. I have been stagnant for far too long.” 

“Sherlock, we can't go anywhere. We can't run all over the city and hope someone doesn't see you,” John explained. 

“Why not? I did it for seven months and I was okay,” Sherlock defended. He was itching to do something rather than just sit around. 

John crossed his arms over his chest. “And Irene saw you. What if its not Irene next time?” 

Sherlock sighed and fell back into his chair, grumbling. “That was in Madrid. I'm so bored.” 

John chuckled a little. “You have been back for 24 hours and you're already sick of me.” 

Sherlock gazed up at him, a little too long to be within acceptable limits. “You know that isn't it." 

John changed tactics. “How about we invite Lestrade over? You can harass him a little bit for a change and we'll find something the three of us can do.” 

“You know that won't make any difference.” He mumbled. 

“Well, I think it will be entertaining. I need some time out of the bullseye. I'm going to the market, I'll be right back,” John said grabbing for his coat. 

 

John, with his arms full of groceries, returned up the stairs to the flat. The sight he beheld when he opened the door was so comical that he almost dropped the bags from laughter. It had been too long since he had come back to a new quirk of his flatmate. Sherlock was upside down on the sofa. His head nearly touching the floor with his feet in the air. On his feet was the bow for his violin. He was balancing it, and looked underneath the coffee table at John when he heard the door open. “What could you possibly be doing?” 

Sherlock let one foot fall and caught the bow in his hand. “Bored,” He proclaimed as he flipped himself upright and then walked over the coffee table. The utter disregard he had for furniture was astounding. He then dropped his bow in his chair and headed into the kitchen after John, who had placed all the bags on the tabletop, and Sherlock dug through them being nosey. “What could we need all this beer for?” He asked disgustedly. 

John plucked it from his hands and put it in the fridge. “You have to have beer when you ask a friend to come over. You don't like it, you go shopping.” 

“Well, I hope you both enjoy your alcohol induced comatose selves,” Sherlock exited the kitchen talking back over his shoulder. 

“You're not going to drink with us?” John called after him.

Sherlock picked up his violin and began playing. “Really, John. Don't be thick.” 

John just listened to him play until Lestrade was at the door. He loved the sound of the violin since the very first time he saw Sherlock pick it up. He wasn't sure if it was the violin or the man wielding it like it could be his final battle and this was his only ax. Sherlock very rarely played anything that wasn't made up on the spot. Not that John would have been able to tell the difference. He didn't remember much about his clarinet lessons he did as an adolescent. 

Sherlock stopped upon hearing the knock, and John went to answer the door. Their flat seemed never ending with visitors today, but at least this one had been invited. Lestrade had a large smile on his face. “It is good to see you Greg,” John said stepping aside to allow him entry. 

“Its good to see you, too. And the two of you back together.” Lestrade made a motion to Sherlock who was returning his violin to his case. John could tell he was frustrated that he had to stop.

The comment was harmless enough, but John's face flushed slightly. He couldn't help but to think back to his internal monologue from earlier. 

“Things are back to being good at home, I see.” Sherlock must have deduced from his appearance or stance or some other preposterous feature. “That has to make you happy.” John shot him a warning glance. In Sherlock's defence, he was trying to be sociable. He just wasn't very good at it. 

Lestrade tried to sidestep the remark. “Yes, they are.” He turned to John. “What did you have in mind to watch tonight?” 

“Something Sherlock is going to loathe. Do you remember how Sherlock plagued me with snakes for a week?” John asked, and Lestrade nodded in return. “Since I had to endure finding them in various states of age and decomposition all over the flat, I was thinking Anaconda would be the best way to pay him back for that.” Sherlock was glaring at him. He wasn't much of a movie watcher, especially ones for pleasure. A B-movie would to make him absolutely crazy. Even John didn't think it was that good, but everything seemed better after a couple of beers. 

Lestrade chuckled. “That sounds wonderful.” 

They settled down when it was time to begin. Lestrade in the chair, John closest to him on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn, and Sherlock at the opposite end with his legs pulled up to his chest. He managed to behave and not complain much until he said something that made everyone laugh. “Why are they focused so much on the director's backside?” Lestrade and John bursted into laughter. “What?” He asked seriously. 

John stifled his laughter long enough to grab three beers from the fridge. He handed one to Lestrade, who opened it and started drinking immediately. He held one out to Sherlock who just looked up at him questioningly. “Come on, Sherlock. Just try to enjoy yourself. You really need to relax,” John pleaded. 

_____________________

 

Sherlock:

Sherlock unwrapped his legs and placed them on the floor, then took the drink and managed to get it open. He took small sips, not enjoying the taste at all. It was too bitter for him. He was only doing it to please John. He didn't drink much unless he was around his family, when it was expected of him. After beating his drug addiction, he had trouble relinquishing control over his actions.

They didn't allow Sherlock to fall far behind and each had drunk a considerable amount by the end of the movie. He could feel his body getting warm all the way to his toes. Lestrade looked a little like he was dizzy, but it didn't appear to have much affect on John. He had kicked his shoes off, but Sherlock suspected it was for comfort rather than from it being too hot. He half listened to their conversation until Lestrade said something that caught his attention. 

“So have you been on any dates, recently?” He asked. 

John chuckled lightly. “You mean in the week's time since I saw you? No, I haven't. Sherlock just got back yesterday. I thought I would settle in before bringing any girls over to be analysed for his amusement.” 

Lestrade nodded. “What about that girl from the other night? The blonde with the pretty face. She seemed to be in to you.” 

“I suppose so. She did give me her number. I just haven't called her yet. What was her name?” John asked. Sherlock took a big gulp of his drink and went to grab another from the fridge. This was not something that he wanted to hear right now. He had just got John back, and he didn't want him going anywhere. He dropped back on the sofa and made John bounce a little. He glanced over at him surprised, but Lestrade didn't notice. 

“Cassie, or something right?” 

John's eyes focused back on Lestrade. “Yeah, that sounds about right. She was really pretty.” John could hear Sherlock taking large gulps, and looked at him. “Are you okay?” 

Sherlock faked a smile and nodded trying to be convincing. He didn't want to get started on anything like that tonight. God knows, he never wanted to have that conversation. He could only too vividly imagine the look on John's face if he ever told him. 

Lestrade spoke not really noticing what was happening. “So Sherlock, have you ever had a girlfriend?” 

Sherlock put down the beer. “Yes. In university. Didn't end too well.” John actually looked shocked that Sherlock had been in a relationship before. He probably thought he was so far above that. 

Lestrade just bobbed his head up and down, taking another drink. “I remember my first girlfriend. Lauren McCoy. She was a ginger. I wonder what she is up to now. Probably off married.” 

“Irish?” John asked obviously feigning interest. 

“Absolutely. She had the most wonderful accent.” Sherlock was a little surprised for someone to say that they enjoyed an Irish accent, but let it go. Lestrade's eyes roamed around for a clock. When he seen the time, he started to stand up. “I should get going. I have to put Ella to bed. The sitter is probably getting anxious to go home.” 

John showed him out while Sherlock didn't move. John shook Lestrade's hand. “It was good to see you. I really enjoyed tonight. Thank you for coming over.” 

“Thanks, I really enjoyed it too. Bye, Sherlock,” He called and headed out the door waving. 

_____________________

 

John:

Sherlock grumbled childishly, “I don't want you to go anywhere, John.” 

“What? I'm not going anywhere,” He replied looking concerned as he sat back down. His mind immediately went to Moran. Was something wrong? Had he figured out something that he hadn't shared with him yet? 

“You'll date and you'll get married. You'll have a family and you won't want me hanging around them. You'll have a life without me and I won't have anyone.” Sherlock seemed to have cracked. His inhibitions were lowered as an effect of the alcohol. 

John relaxed. At least it wasn't Moran. “I'll always want you around, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock shook his head quickly. “No, you won't. You will have another home. You won't have any use for me any longer.” 

That seemed a little rushed. He hadn't even put her number in his phone yet. It still laid in a drawer in his bedroom. “I only just met her. I barely remembered her name. You know my luck with women, anyway. It's most likely that she won't want anything to do with me.” 

He could tell that Sherlock had too much to drink. His face was much less composed than normal. “Yes, she will. She'll love you. She will want to be with you all the time, until she meets me. I'm always the one who drives everyone off. Once you realise that you'll stop bringing them around and stop coming around yourself. I'll sit here alone with my cases and my violin, and try to distract myself from the fact that no one wants to be around me. Maybe Mycroft and I can get a place. At least we would be lonely together in our hatred for one another.” 

John felt bad for him. He completely believed everyone else hated him. Saddest part was that most of it was true, many people did dislike him. But they only disliked him because they didn't understand him. Didn't see the guarded parts of him that he only seemed to share with John. Moments like this that no one else ever saw. “Sherlock, what do you want me to do? It was always supposed to be that way. I planned to go into the army, find a wife, and support a family. It's what everyone expects of me.” 

“What do you want to do? Forget everyone else. What do you see for your future?” Sherlock asked. 

John was ashamed at his first thought. He didn't to go anywhere. He felt he would still be here. It was more than just lack of self confidence about finding a girlfriend, but that this was where he wanted to be. That was the real reason his relationships never worked out. The women were always nice enough, but he preferred running around risking his life with Sherlock. The girls he dated eventually became boring. Any impressions of feelings faded away. When Sherlock gave him an excuse to come running, he did. Of his own free will. “Come on. Let's get you to bed,” he said, avoiding the answer. He helped Sherlock into his room and took off his shoes. He just climbed in bed without removing his clothes. 

John was about to leave when a long slender hand grabbed his arm. “John, what is it like to love someone?” Sherlock already seemed half asleep. His exhaustion and the alcohol taking over.

John sat down on the edge of the bed. He wasn't sure he was qualified to answer this question. He thought back on his life, and pondered what it would be like, ideally, for him. “I am not sure, but I think it means that you would wake up in the middle of the night for someone for no real reason. That you listen to their problems no matter how bad your own were. That you would choose their happiness over your own. It is when you try so hard to get that smile out of them, the one they reserve only for you. It's feeling empty when they are away, and knowing you would sacrifice yourself for them at any moment.” 

Sherlock loosened his grip and nuzzled into his pillow. “I would do that for you, John,” He mumbled as he started to drift to sleep. 

John couldn't help himself. He brushed the curls back from his face for just a moment. “I know you would.” 

He quietly exited Sherlock's room. He was sure that he was asleep before he even finished speaking, but he didn't want to take any chances. The moment he shut the door, his legs felt like they had turned to liquid. He quickly sat down in a kitchen chair before he lost all his balance and fell over. His head was pounding. What had just happened? There was no way that Sherlock just told him that he loved him, in some round about way, did he? 'He's just sad and worried about being alone. He'll forget all about this in the morning,' John tried to tell himself. 

John went to his room and changed into pyjamas. He didn't want to get his hopes up, didn't want another disappointment. That was never how these things went. He was just projecting his feelings on to Sherlock, and all of this would be gone in the morning. The more he tried not to think about it, the more it was the most prevalent thought in his mind. Even if Sherlock wasn't saying he loved him, he did say that he wanted him to stay here, that he didn't want John to leave. John allowed himself just enough hope for that. He just hoped to be important in Sherlock's life. A place to fit in. That seemed enough for now.

_____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to the flawless [WritingQuill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill) for her amazing edits and even greater suggestions.


	4. Confessions

John: 

The sun was blazing brightly through John's window making the room pleasantly warm. He barely slept after last night's exploits and he doubted now would be any different. His mind kept running with possibilities. Could he just ask Sherlock if he remembered what happened? If not, then what? He already knew it was impossible, but something kept nagging at him. He used the term sociopath as an excuse behind which to hide, a mask so he wouldn’t let people come too close. It meant Sherlock went through a lot of trouble to convince everyone he didn't want a relationship.

John quickly showered trying not to make too much noise, and then he sat down to drink his coffee. Still no sign of Sherlock. He denied the urge to check on him. 

He thought maybe the smell of breakfast would wake Sherlock. He made a selection of sausage and eggs, but still no sign of life. He covered the food and decided to wait on Sherlock to eat. He should have known Sherlock wouldn't wake up to eat. He was just getting too lost in his own head, over-thinking and allowing anxiety to tear him down. 

With no other option, John ran down to get the paper and opened it up - it was necessary to know what was going on if you were going to assist the World's Only Consulting Detective. 

It took about a half hour for said detective to appear. He wore his pyjamas and dressing gown. John wondered when he had changed because he hadn't heard him last night. Sherlock wasn't known to be quiet unless it was necessary, and he didn't do 'consideration for others' very well. He was running his hand through his incredibly dishevelled hair as he collapsed into a chair. It looked like it had been a rough night. 

“Headache?” John asked quietly. He guessed it had to be a hangover. Sherlock just nodded and John went to get some paracetamol. He handed it to Sherlock along with a glass of water. “You should feel better soon.” 

John sat back down with the newspaper and allowed Sherlock some time for the medicine to kick in before suggesting breakfast. When that time finally did arrive, Sherlock promised to try to eat something. John reheated everything and laid it out on the table. He also popped in toast. 

John had settled in and eaten a few bites before Sherlock spoke. “I am sorry for last night,” he said quietly. John's face flushed. He knew there was no hiding it. 

“It's okay.” He wasn't sure what Sherlock could remember and what he was even thinking about, but he wasn't going to let his brain go there. 

Sherlock wouldn't face at him. “I know you aren't gay. I don't know what I was thinking. I think a confession like that was inappropriate?” He questioned rather than stated. 

John's heart felt stuck in his throat. He had trouble swallowing the bite he had just taken. “Sherlock, what are you saying?” 

Sherlock's eyes met John's. “Last night when I confessed, my . . . fondness for you and asked you not to leave me. I recognise that you are not gay and that it would never work between us. If it wasn't for the alcohol, believe me I never would have said anything.” 

Slightly offended John retorted. “What do you mean we would never work? I'm a wonderful partner.” 

Sherlock picked at his food, almost as if bored. A single bite never made it to his mouth. “I think you are missing the main point, John.” 

John tried very hard not to smile like the biggest idiot in the world. “Are you saying that you are attracted to me?” 

Sherlock sighed. “I think I have made that perfectly clear. Must you keep teasing me about this? I would like to go back as if I had never said anything.”

John had forgotten his food. At this moment he had forgotten everything except Sherlock and the drumming sound of his heart in his ears. “I don't. You can't take something back once you have said it. Did you consider for a second if the other person, i.e. me, liked to hear what you had to say?” 

Sherlock cocked his head, confused. “You have made it perfectly clear that you weren't gay. Even after my 'death' and you grieved over my loss, you didn't want to be close to me. I laid down next to you and you pulled your arm away. You woke up with my hand in your hair and your head on my lap, and you rolled off the couch like I had some infectious disease. Last night I confessed that I wasn't sure what love was, but that I had some amount of affection for you, and you left me alone in my bed. I think it's fairly obvious.” 

John felt a little deflated. He hadn't thought about the way Sherlock would take his actions. He didn't think Sherlock ever noticed him unless it was convenient. And he was too convinced that Sherlock didn't care what John did because he would never be interested in a relationship. These were just taken as Sherlock's quirks. “If you are joking with me, you better stop before I do something that will embarrass us both,” John warned. 

“I'm not joking. I thought we both knew what was going on here.” 

John shrugged his shoulders in a huff. “I told you that you should stop assuming the I can follow what you're doing. I am not as observant as you are.” 

“You are capable of being, John. I've always known you were. You just have to try.” He paused, steering himself back on track. “So, you didn't know what was going on?” He questioned unsure.

“No! I thought your work was too important,” John said excitedly. This conversation was actually happening. All he could think about was running across the table and kissing him. He just didn't want to rush anything. Especially with Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked sad for a moment. “Well, losing everything really helps you put things in perspective. It was when I jumped from that rooftop that I decided that you were more important than all the cases I had ever worked or would work. I chose to smear my entire life's work to save you.” 

Hearing it said aloud made John's stomach clench. He had never meant so much to anyone before, and he doubted that Sherlock had either. John spoke quietly, “I would have done everything I could to save you, if I'd known.” 

Sherlock quirked up his eyebrow. “I realise you would have. I didn't want you to know, that is why you didn't.” 

John took a bite of cold eggs, then pushed them out of his way. “So we fancy each other. Where do we go from here?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “I have never been in this predicament before.”

“What about that girl in university?” John asked jokingly.

“I definitely didn't feel about her like I do you. Not to mention, she was crazy. We had only dated a week before she showed up in my bed naked. I had to go get Mycroft from work to get her out. I had no idea what to do.” 

“Ah. So you have always attracted the Irene type, then.” John joked, but when he got no reply he continued. “Oh, Sherlock. What have we gotten ourselves into?” His mind was reeling at all the worst possible outcomes. He decided that being busy would make the situation less awkward, and the dishes needed attention. 

“More than I think either of us has ever imagined,” Sherlock whispered quietly. 

John kissed the top of Sherlock's head, breathing in deep his earthy smell. He couldn't stop himself. He was too excited. Too happy to control his actions. “Yes. I just hope that is right. To be honest, this is scaring me.” He cleaned up their half eaten food. 

“John?” Sherlock. 

John stood in front of the sink with a plate in hand. “Yes?” The sound uttered from his mouth was shaky. His heart was racing as his mind spun ideas of the horrible conclusions this could take. Had Sherlock already changed his mind? Was he just experimenting on him in some weird way? 

Sherlock twined his fingers together and sat staring at them. “I am not sure if I can be a good partner. I have not had much experience in that area, and I am not sure quite what is expected to happen. I think we shouldn't be involved. I wouldn't be able to give you what you need. I don't think this would be a good way to end our friendship.” 

John relaxed. He smiled at Sherlock. He wasn't getting out of this that easy. “You will figure it out. We all do. And don't worry, I'm not expecting anything from you. I'm still in shock from you telling me that you like me.” He carried on arranging the kitchen back in order then joined Sherlock. He seemed to be staring at something that John couldn't see. John paused not sure if he should approach or not. “You okay?” He asked. 

Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft. He tried to call, when I refused to answer the phone he texted. He wants me to meet him over at his house. He has gathered more information for me, and feels that if I want it I need to come get it. I hate being his dog. Coming when he calls and doing exactly what he says.” 

John felt bad for Sherlock. He knew his issues he had with his brother, as ridiculous as they might seem to him, he saw what it did to Sherlock's ego. Mycroft was the only one who could do that. “Do you want me to come along.” 

“I don't think that would make this any easier. I need to think about this.” Sherlock headed towards his room. 

John occupied himself with the dishes before him. He didn't want to make things worse. Sherlock returned fully dressed for the day and grabbed his coat. He didn't even give a passing glance at John, just left. 

_____________________

 

Sherlock: 

Sherlock did his best not to think about the morning. It was all too new and confusing. When he had stood up on the roof of St. Bart's, he released emotions that had been locked away deep inside his mind for a long time. Seeing John on the street broke down all his reserves. He wasn't supposed to be there. He wasn't supposed to see this, but John could always surprise him. It was then that Sherlock realised that John wasn't just his friend. Sherlock would do anything for him, to protect him. Knowing that John felt the same way was too overwhelming. He had tried to lock the door again against the emotions, but it shattered again every time. He shook his head trying to focus on the task at hand. 

Sherlock hated his brother, his mortal enemy. The one person in the world who could and would tear him down. He was fuming by the time he reached Mycroft's townhouse. Sherlock was disgusted at the wasted space. Mycroft was one person, there was no possible reason for him to have that much space. Sherlock begrudgingly rang the doorbell. 

Within seconds it opened. He imagined one of Mycroft's men spotted him coming since the time he left his flat. 

“Welcome, Sherlock,” Anthea said stepping aside. “Mycroft is in-” 

Sherlock stepped past her and headed into the house. “I know where he is.” He found his brother in his study, as usual. “What was so important that you couldn't have texted it to me?” Sherlock asked perplexed. 

Mycroft put down the paper he was reading. “Well, hello to you too, brother.” He motioned to the chair across from his oversized desk. “Take a seat.” 

Sherlock sat down, not bothering to take off his coat. He was not going to stay very long. “And the information?” 

Mycroft sighed deciding to just get on with it. “We found out Ferule's real name. Its Justin Hamel. He is a dispatch for the police.” 

Sherlock nodded appreciating the information. He just wished it wasn't so painstakingly slow. “Why don't we go to pick him up now?” he asked. “Why wait?” 

His brother smiled. “That is why I called you. I thought you might like to go along with Lestrade when they go to pick him up. He is currently at work. I'm watching every exit on CCTV. He's still there if you would like to ride along and assist in the questioning.” 

Sherlock felt like it was early Christmas. Of course he wanted to go. He wanted to find the bastard who threatened John's life. He wanted progress, real progress. 

_____________________

 

John: 

Extremely tired, John decided he had no other choice than to try to sleep. Sherlock had been gone all day and he was worried, but worrying wasn't going to bring him back. John even picked up some hours at the clinic, and Sherlock still hadn't been back yet. He moved down farther in the sheets and attempted to turn off his thoughts. 

Later, John was woken by movement in the bed. He froze instinctively, and his eyes snapped open, first seeing the alarm clock glowing red with the numbers 2:37. He turned to find Sherlock looking right at him, squeezed in his tiny bed between himself and the wall. His pulse finally returned to normal. “Damn it, Sherlock. I was trained to kill people.” John rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. 

Sherlock looked a little confused. Like it wasn't extremely odd to show up in someone's bed and invite yourself in. 

John noticed how strangely warm it was to have Sherlock so close, but tried to focus on the events of earlier that night. It really concerned him when he left without a word, but decided to chalk it up to just being Sherlock. “Did you find out anything good?” He could see Sherlock almost teaming with giddiness. 

“Yes, we caught Ferule tonight. It was brilliant.” Sherlock's smile seemed not to wane. 

John's heart felt as if it stopped. “What? You went after him?” John did his doctorly inspection with what parts of Sherlock he could see in the dark. “Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” He shot up into a sitting position looking down at him. He could see a scrape across Sherlock's left brow. He touched it carefully, it had dried by then. “Where else are you injured?” 

Sherlock batted his hand away. “I'm fine.” 

He quickly grabbed supplies to properly clean Sherlock's scrape. He held Sherlock's hands out of the way until he gave up and just let him tend to it. “You're the biggest idiot I've ever seen,” John said. A part of him was hoping to hit him where it hurt. “What made you think you could go in there without me? Do you remember what happened the last time you went out without me? Why can't you see I am useful?” John scolded. 

_____________________

 

Sherlock:

Sherlock just closed his eyes taking it in. He knew he deserved it. He had thought for a moment about John before he left, but didn't want to put him in unnecessary danger. “Of course you're useful, John. I just was excited about finding him. Lestrade even allowed me to question him. I think we got some very useful information.” 

John took a little offence to that, but he didn't say anything. He completed his task and returned to his horizontal position. 

Sherlock wanted to reach out and touch him, but decided against it. “I am sorry for the way I left. I shouldn't have taken out my frustration for Mycroft on you.” 

John shook his head. “It is okay. I do understand. I have an older sibling too, remember? I know what it is like to have to deal with them.” John appeared thoughtful for a moment. “Sherlock, don't think that you have to sleep in here to make up for that. I'm not expecting anything from you.” 

Sherlock was confused. “I thought that this was right. I thought you were supposed to sleep in the same bed when you were dating and living together. Is that not right?” He wanted to be here. He didn't want John to make him leave, although he supposed he should have asked first. 

John smiled. “You don't have to do anything. Nothing until you are comfortable. I know you couldn't possibly be comfortable with me here this close to you while you are trying to sleep. And it's okay. I realise you don't like to have too much contact.” 

“John, you don't count. For some reason, this is the first time in my life that I would rather be right here next to you than alone,” Sherlock explained watching John's eyes. They were a beautiful shade of deep blue. And they seemed perfect with his sandy blond hair. Sherlock really wanted to run his hands through his hair again. He wasn't sure if he should. John had so easily touched him, why couldn't he do the same? He tested it out. Running a few fingers through John's short hair. It was incredibly soft and caused his fingers to tingle. 

“I don't think you possibly could be comfortable in here. I still have nightmares of the war, Sherlock, and of your death. I wake up in the middle of the night and sometimes I wake up loudly. I wouldn't want to keep you awake,” John tried to reason, but Sherlock could see the pleasure he was getting from Sherlock stroking his hair. 

“You know that I wouldn't mind waking up for you in the middle of the night. I am not that great to sleep with either. I have the tendency to take up too much of the bed and I can never keep a blanket on properly. It always ends in a mess. I want to be here for you when you have those nightmares, so I'm staying unless you truly want me to go.” 

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist, as he started to get up. “Stay.” 

_____________________

 

John:

Sherlock hadn't been lying when he said he was a handful to sleep with. The night started out well, Sherlock on his own side of the bed, but soon after he fell asleep, he started sliding closer and closer until he was in the middle of the bed and clinging on to John with all his limbs. This itself would have been fine if hadn't tried to accomplish the task in his sleep. John kept waking by being prodded with knees and elbows. Sherlock was all angles and John was sure he had hit him with at least eighty percent of them last night. Even though, the sight when he woke up was worth it. He had moved onto his back and Sherlock had managed to have both of his arms and one of his legs wrapped around him. John wiggled his arm out and placed it around him. Sherlock moved closer pressing his face into John's side. John moved his hand up and down Sherlock's back while watching his face.

It was strange having him so close, but at the same time it wasn't strange at all. It didn't matter that Sherlock was a man. John realised it didn't make a difference to him. He knew how he felt about Sherlock, and through the fogginess of sleep, that was all that mattered. 

John felt the arms around him tighten. “You're staring at me,” Sherlock mumbled into John's shirt. 

John chuckled. “I suppose I am. Is that okay?” 

Sherlock lifted his head and smiled. “It's fine.” He propped himself up on his elbow.

“Did you sleep okay?” John asked, knowing Sherlock was plagued with the inability to just relax and sleep. He always seemed to be trying to escape his own skin. Like he could explode at any moment. 

He nodded his head. “I did actually. I was finally able to shut down for a little bit.” Sherlock stared at the fabric of of John's shirt being quiet for a moment. “Are you still going to leave me and go to your sister's for Christmas?” 

John smiled. Was that really the first thing Sherlock would think about in the morning? “Would you like to come with me? 

“Are you sure that you're ready for me to meet your family? I don't usually give off the best first impression, or second, or third, actually.” 

“You did with me. I thought you were incredibly fascinating the first time I saw you.” 

“You were different. You were special. No one else finds me interesting. They just think I'm an arse. Are you sure you should bring your partner when you are coming out to your family for the first time?” Sherlock asked.

He smiled at Sherlock and ran a hand over his hair. His pulse increased. He hadn't thought of that yet. Leave it to Sherlock to be three steps ahead of everyone else. Skipping right over the awkward conversation and right to titles. “If they can't accept me with you, then I don't want much to do with them. Besides, they eventually accepted Harry.” John watched Sherlock's eyes wondering what could possibly be going on behind them. “Come on, lets get ready for the day. I am sure that you have many things to tell me from your adventure last night.” 

Sherlock's eyes lit up as he leaped out of bed over John. “This game, John, is just getting good.” With that he all but ran down the stairs leaving John's door standing wide open. John got up to shut it so he could get dressed. Yesterday seemed like such a blur of events. Everything changed. He knew that there was no going back. Whatever happened in their relationship was it. They had two roads to go down. The first being happy and working with Sherlock in a relationship and through his work, and the second was a bitter end to their relationship and their friendship. John wished desperately for the former. 

When he headed downstairs, Sherlock was pacing in the sitting room. He still hadn't dressed. John was fairly sure that Sherlock would wear his pyjamas forever if he could stay in the flat. John made himself some toast and took a seat in his chair while he followed Sherlock with his eyes. The long slender form a stark contrast to the glaring of the morning sun through the windows. 

Sherlock finally noticed his presence and seemed to shatter with excitement. “Oh John, we finally have real development. No more chasing around a ghost. We picked up Ferule, whose name is Justin Hamel, at dispatch. He tried to slip out a side door, but Mycroft had seen him leave. While Lestrade and his men took to chasing him in their cars, I pursued on foot. I had cut him off and managed to knock the gun he had out of his hand while simultaneously aiming for pressure points and vulnerable places on his body to make him fall to the ground. Unfortunately, his hand caught me on the way down and that is how I ended up with this.” Sherlock pointed at the scrape on his head. “Had a rather large ring on that scratched me. By the time Lestrade arrived, I already had him apprehended.” His words seemed to tumble out of his mouth.

John's heart raced as he listened to his story and damned himself for allowing him to go alone. What was Mycroft thinking? He may call himself a Consulting Detective, but he was still a civilian. 

“Then we took him in for questioning. While the so-called experts tried, I watched behind the glass. He didn't do much of anything, but it was obvious he had been trained. When I finally got a turn with him, I ended up knowing where Moran is supposed to be on New Year's Eve. I plan to use that time to find him. Ferule will stay in Lestrade's custody until that time, so he won't be able to contact Moran. They have plenty of charges against him to stay in there for a good long while. 

John's head was spinning. “You plan to go after Moran yourself?” He asked, glad he was sitting down. 

Sherlock spun to face him. His dressing gown flaring out as he did so. “Of course. I have the opportune moment to catch the one man who could threaten you. I'm going to get rid of him.” 

John ran his hands over his knees. He knew nothing he said could ever change the mind of Sherlock Holmes. Nothing anyone ever said could. He was the most stubborn person in existence. “You won't be leaving me behind. I will come.” 

_____________________

 

Sherlock:

Sherlock just nodded and accepted his terms. John had saved his life countless times, it would be ignorant to go without him. Sherlock wanted to kiss him like he would never stop, but refrained from it. He still wasn't comfortable. He laughed at himself. He could chase down the worst criminals in the world, but he was scared to disappoint John Watson. The one person in the world who actually accepted him for himself. 

John watched as Sherlock had his internal dilemma. “Are you okay?” 

Sherlock turned to him. “Hmm? Ah Yes. I'm fine.” He leaned over John in his chair, contemplating for a moment. “John, I want to get better at this relationship thing.” 

John raised one eyebrow staring up at him. “Relationship thing? What do you mean? It has been one day.” 

Sherlock occupied himself by looking down at the ground. “I don't want to miss out on touching you because I don't know how.” 

John was astonished at his bluntness. “Sherlock, we're not in any hurry. You've just admitted yesterday that you have feelings for someone for the first time in your life. Everything will come in its own time.” John said running his hands over the arms of the chair. 

“Yes, but I have been feeling them for over seven months. I waited all that time to be with you, and now I'm tired of waiting. Before I thought that companionship was a form of weakness, but with you it's something else. You make me a better person, but not only that. You make me want to be a better person for you. I just don't want to wait any longer to actually feel like I'm with you. I want you to know that I am committed to this relationship. It's not an experiment or fleeting desire brought about under stress of losing you.” 

_____________________

 

John:

Something Mycroft said once stuck in John's mind. He asked what we could deduce about Sherlock's heart from deciding to become a detective instead of a scientist or a philosopher. John knew exactly what it was about Sherlock's heart that set him on that path for his future, in that moment. He cares. Deeply so. Even when he won't allow anyone to see. Sherlock has an innocent way of loving people. Untainted by the betrayals and disappointments of the world because he has never allowed himself to show that side of him to anyone. And yet, here he was, showing it to John. Allowing himself to be hurt in a way that he has never allowed himself before. Always hiding under the mask of a self-proclaimed sociopath, hiding his vulnerable side from the world and consequently dooming himself to be alone forever. John couldn't allow himself to mess this up. While it would hurt him incredibly if anything happened to their relationship, John knew that if he didn't get this right Sherlock would never allow himself to open up like this again. Sherlock being alone and uncaring broke something inside John. He would do everything in his power to make this right. 

_____________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thanks to [WritingQuill](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill). She has yet to give up on me even though I have been procrastinating this never-ending editing process.


	5. An Experiment in Heartbreak

Chapter is currently being revised and will be reposted as soon as it is finished.


	6. Four Christmases

Chapter is currently being revised and will be reposted as soon as it is finished.


	7. Doubt

Chapter is currently being revised and will be reposted as soon as it is finished.


	8. Beginning of the End

Chapter is currently being revised and will be reposted as soon as it is finished.


	9. Leaving

Chapter is currently being revised and will be reposted as soon as it is finished.


End file.
